The prompt was to share ten photos I didn't have ten worthy photos in this past week to share, however:
A highlight of the week was a garden swap / earth day / SWANA collaboration at work. SWANA stands for Southwest Asia and North Africa. I decided to do my own collab with the Meow slack channel and I brought cat grass seeds for people to use in delighting their cats.
Him: I forgot to take my Neulasta after chemo
Discussion follows. I start wondering whether he can just take it anyway today. I go back to my laptop.
Him: Don't freak out.
Me: Do you know what is one of the most punchable things you can say?
It's about the colors.
My plan for today was to dye some eggs. I just like color. Color makes me happy. I had saved some tablets from last year, so I was ready to go.
But first! An old old friend contacted me to ask if I wanted to pick his ume. Heckyeah! I went over to his place with a grabber and a picker and a bag. We talked for an hour, catching up on all kinds of stuff. So good!
Here's the tree, and the haul.
If my mother saw my hands right now she’d scowl and point at my ripped cuticles and comment on whatever vice – chewing or gardening without gloves – must have led to their shabby appearance.
If my sister, the omnipotent one, saw my hands she’d remark on how much she disliked her own and preferred mine, something that she only confessed to me in recent years.
We compare, we see each other and ourselves in our digits, rip off our socks at Thanksgiving to reveal who did or did not have the family “porpoise toe”, and then argue about what constitutes the porpoise toe other than people knowing it when they see it but seeing it differently from one another. We do not know which ancestor begat the toe.
At a Starbucks in the former meat market in Bergen where our female ancestors were butchers, we have coffee with a distant relative who chastises, in absentia, a woman who married into the family and passed along a congenital hip ailment. My laugh was not appreciated. Was the family perfect beforehand?
My father had one finger so mighty that it could end conversations and silence the room. His hands were wide, his fingers square at the tips, on the end of normal sized fingers. The index finger, his family-famous “spatulate finger”, would smite the dinner table, perpendicular to it, for emphasis. The finger spoke.
Nobody inherited the spatulate finger. The nephew has the shape, but also an ameliorating curved nailbed from an outside genetic force. He does not wield the finger with power.
The week my hands failed, life sat up and barked orders. It expected new things and did not explain the alternatives. Gone was the ability to operate doorknobs without pain. The hands subcontracted to other bodyparts as slow healing commenced through disuse. Feet were the new tools of choice. The hands returned, changed. The price of today's ability to play music or use a stubborn remote is tomorrow's pain. I’m grateful and I’m different and I can see to the other side in new ways since the time of my original hands.
Yesterday was a challenge. I sat in the rain waiting for my ride, which was very cooling.
Got to the airport and they directed me to the lounge. Their airport focaccia was surprisingly tender.
There wasn't a place to sit near Air Dolomiti's gate so we all sat on the floor.
The plane took forever to get off the runway. I had a short time at Frankfurt to make my connecting flight already, and this was making me nervous. The flight attendant called ahead to let them know I was going to be late, but that's all they did for me. He told me how much time I had to work with, and wished me the best of luck. It was more time than I thought -- 40 minutes. I could not figure out from my app whether I had to go through passport control or bag checking of my carry ons. I was hoping not.
We deplaned and walked up the stairs to the terminal. I needed Z terminal and was in A. I followed the signs for Z, that suddenly disappeared. A set of 3 elevators marked Z were not in service but there were stairs next to them so I went to the second floor. Nothing there but a TSA station that was not in use. The elevator directed me *down* to Z.
I asked for help at Lufthansa, which was supposedly my airline, being serviced by United. No, we can't notify United that you're in the airport. The Z signs pointed in the direction I came from. Suddenly they pointed the opposite direction. I was getting really wound up but was determined not to cry. Another lady told me to walk toward the end of the part of the airport I was in, go outside of the terminal and up an escalator. When I saw some police, I asked them for help. They sent me back the way I'd come from and told me to turn right and then go through passport control. Passport control? Holy cow. Ok, their directions worked and there were three open kiosks at passport control. I found the Z signs again and walked briskly in my platform crocs, cursing myself for not wearing my Hokas.
Finally, at gate Z16 some station agents far away called my name. I started running on a moving sidewalk to get there faster. They yelled that I could stop running because the plane was waiting for me. I threw my fists in the air and yelled "Wooooo!!!!!!!"
After that everything was fine.
My bag didn't make it on the plane but it's on its way here from Frankfurt. Someone will bring it to the house.
My boys were happy to see me. I missed them, but was trying to be a big girl and do for girlself.
So ends Bologna.
This was my presentation day. I was asked to speak early in the day. And then I had a few interviews with forklift bloggers. They all wanted to know about AI and the future of forklifts. I told them all that I was not qualified to speak about it for the company, but I can tell you that in my personal life I love how machine learning can transcribe documents.
My hosts took us out to lunch, which was nice. I had tortellini con brodo -- tortellini in broth. I had hoped to eat this at some point. It was delicious. Taut, meaty filling with nutmeg, bobbing around in broth. The son of our host wrote his selections on his hand. So excellent:
Safely ensconced in my personal sauna, I napped and turned on the tv and found some sort of American Hallmark Channel movie about a woman who meets a wealthy guy who helps her save her dog rescue, or somesuch, which was good background while I did some of my not-very-good embroidery.
More napping, eating my leftovers, turning on the tv to find Italian Food Network. Joe Bastianich and some gigantic meaty fox with lots of hair help rescue failing restaurants, including one called La Principessa. It is owned by a woman so glorious, so much herself that she cannot be unseen. The food is apparently inedible, and her manner is completely off the wall. The only subtitles were in my mind, but it was apparent that the standard menu had no abbreviations for the cooks, and she often took them longhand, with whatever descriptions. Damn, this was good. In the end they took down her beautiful old neon street sign and replaced it with something unattractive, but at least they toned La Principessa down a notch herself.
After the church, which was an unexpected attraction, I headed off to the antique market. It straddled two sides of a cobblestone street. It was like any other flea market, but with stuff from Italy.
This object reminded me of Suleika Jouad.
I bought some overpriced earrings, glad that the "more is more" of the 1980s is back somehow. They delight me. There were interesting bits of ephemera, house accessories (light fixtures, etc.).
And I impulse-bought 10 extra heavy cut glass glasses for 20 euros. Basically an awkward bag of rocks that I then had to haul around with me.
From there I decided to track down the perfume that is signature to Bologna. This was the last time that I was able to navigate with even the help of Google Maps. But I made it. The saleswoman sprayed it all over me, and then made me turn around and sprayed it on my back. I really liked it -- kinda cedar-y, woodsy, but feminine. I would have wanted to buy it for the Rev and I to share, but I don't wear that much perfume. Hubba hubba, though.
I had recommendations for lunch, but ate at a sports bar, reminiscent of Sam Wo's, in that it was a room over a room over a final room, which is where I sat. The servers were all women of a certain age (college?) wearing soccer outfits. Asian-Italian. The room they directed me to was empty, but soon filled. I was trying to eat light because of my recent stomach upset. It was pretty much my modus operandi during my stay. So I had rigatoni alla norma and some grilled vegetables. I know it was a simple thing, but both were outstanding. I took half home for dinner and ended up eating the whole thing with my fingers.
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Suitably rested, I decided to find some vermouth and the Medieval museum. That's when I started to misunderstand the directions and walk in circles. My rocks were so heavy. I was hot and tired and carried a coat, so I felt like I'd squandered my one day with my poor decision making. I found the nearest large street and hailed a cab.
Back at the hotel I was pretty cozy except for the fact that the room was hot. As in Germany, they don't turn on the air conditioning until a certain calendar date. But also there is the noise. Hotel Maggiore is so nice. The people are gracious. It's sweet. But the sound is fucking punitive. During the week there is earth being moved. But that's child play. Nearby is a hospital with a helipad. And so many ambulances. And street noise, and then an indescribable constant loud grinding machine sound. It sounds as if a cement truck is idling beneath your window, but what it is is a machine boring a hole under the city. I kid you not. And because it's stifling in the room, you need to get up close and personal with the street noise by propping open the window. The first night I kept the window closed and wet a washcloth to put on my forehead (I also had a headache from too much wine on the plane), but on Day 2 I braved the noise.
After all that sleep I went down to breakfast and grabbed a few things before taking a shower and heading out. I ate mortadella every day. Probably cheap, stepped-on mortadella (fewer pockets of fat), and I'm down with that.
The plumbing confounded me. First, I turned on the water and the hand-held, pointed straight at me apparently, shot cold water at my mid-section. Aiieeeee!!! Then I pointed it away from me and gently turned the heavy handle to the left, which I assumed was temperature - aieeeeeee! The handle plummeted to the shower pan and I moved my toe away just in time. I stuck it back in place and tried again, still confused but boasting to myself about my superior reflexes.
The taxi driver left me at the city wall and a sign drew me down the street.
Before I could do more than take a photo I saw some people head up some stairs and followed into a church hallway embedded with tombstones or monuments. And a photograph or painting (I couldn't tell) of bones. This was my kind of place. I spent a good long time in San Giovanni in Monte, checking out all of the areas. It's Easter season, so you can kneel in front of these olive branches:
A month ago I was asked if I wanted to do a presentation on an upcoming anniversary of the forklift company. It wouldn't be an official thing, but the hosts were offering a free business class ticket to Italy. Mrguy is doing great, but did not want to go with me. He and boy kitten had a guy's date while I was gone.
So for the last month I struggled to write the presentation. I got some feedback from a colleague and that set me right, again. I went from what I called "a solid 16 minutes" to almost an hour, and that seemed good. I felt guilty spending time on this presentation but felt as if it could give back to forklifts somehow.
The flights were through Lufthansa but serviced by other airlines, which made figuring out the schedule, how to confirm flights and anything related to flying confusing. Know also that when I travel I always do so with mrguy, who is in charge of logistics. I knew this would be good for me, but a stretch. Stretching is good.
Day 1 was the trip to Bologna. First an 11 hour flight on United, then a short flight from Frankfurt to Bologna. I watched Sing Sing, and some other stuff that I can't remember. The gate transfer at Frankfurt, which is a huge and intimidating airport, was blissfully easy, after the usual annoyance of passport control,
bus crowds from the plane to the gate
and passport control.
I like striped planes.
On to Bologna. Lunch was a gigantic ball of burrata, which I ate with glee, and later regret.
